Just the Zeppo
by Tofu86
Summary: 5 years ago Xander Harris left the Watcher's Council, now they want him back for one last job. Dangerous, risky, deniable; it's tailor made for a sap. Which is probably why they kidnapped him for the interview.
1. A Lesson on Murder

I've been contemplating a story like this for awhile now, and finally decided to give it a go.

Expect this to play fast and loose with the rules and don't expect too much drama, I'm trying my hand at humor. This may be a mistake

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the characters represented in this work, those are owned by much smarter people. Think of me as the kid who sneaks into his neighbors sandbox.

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**Chapter 1: A Lesson on Murder**

Knocking someone out with a blow to the back of the head is a lot harder than it looks on TV. It's not as simple as giving them a love tap with the butt of a gun.

First of all you've got to consider the damage you can do to someone. Located at the back of the brain is the occipital lobe. This lobe receives and transmits images from the optic tract. Any sort of damage can result in vision impairment or blindness. Even worse is damage to the base of the skull, which could shift the cervical vertebrae and thus the spinal cord. Named the rabbit punch after a way to immobilize rabbits used by hunters; this is what leads to paralysis or death when old people slip on icy sidewalks.

Second, you can't punch someone too soft, or all you'll get is a lump groaning, but lucid, on the floor.

So image my surprise when I'm getting a late night glass of milk only to have a baseball bat smack me upside the head. The glass and milk goes god knows where, leaving horrible stains wherever it lands and I end up moaning and eating carpet in the worst possible way.

My aggressor's not blind, they notice immediately I'm writhing on the ground and not unconscious, so it's no surprise they mount my back and start choking me out.

And that tells me everything I need to know about them.

First of all, if it wasn't obvious, they aren't trying to kill me. I could have probably figured that from the lack of gun, but chiefly I associate this with them not continuing with the baseball bat once I hit the floor. Or slicing my neck open with the knife belted to their waist.

Which leads to my next assumption:

They're an amateur.

I know, I know. I can hear the dissenters, "but Xander, they got into your apartment, took you by surprise. How can you call them an amateur?"

It's simple: they don't know how to choke someone. Rather, she doesn't know how to choke someone.

Someone's taught her the basics, she's pressed herself flat, which is how I know it's a she and she's wrapped her legs around mine so I can't buck her off. The problem comes with the actual choking.

See, her forearm is wrenching painfully into my trachea, which makes breathing feel like I'm inhaling a bowl full of tacks. That's called an air choke, which prevents someone from breathing, obvious right?

You've probably thought that relatively clever, with no air I'll soon pass out, which is what she figured too. What she forgot is the length of time the average human can hold their breath for.

Stig Severinsen, a world champion free diver, set the world record for time spent without breathing; he stayed underwater, completely unassisted, for 22 minutes. If you're not good with numbers I'll keep it simple: that's a shit load of time.

I'm not Stig Severinsen, but even still the average human can hold their breath for at least a minute, which when trying to choke a man out, is forever. It helps to have been genetically modified into a super swimmer in high school.

What she should have done is scissor my neck between her forearm and bicep, then squeeze thereby halting the flow of blood through my carotid artery. That's called a blood choke, which takes a mere 10 seconds to put even the toughest people into a state of unconsciousness.

10 seconds versus a minute, meaning it's 600% faster.

That's an extra 50 seconds to pontificate and contemplate my next course of action, with time left over to plan for breakfast. I'm thinking yoghurt and granola; fibre, protein, maybe some berries to up the sugar, sounds pretty good right about now.

The next thing that occurs to me, which is actually more relevant to this situation, is to kill the girl trying to choke me; the push dagger in my belt would to the job, as would the knife strapped to her belt, which has been poking me in the kidney since she started choking me. All it takes is a jab to a major artery. But call me curious, so I don't.

Instead, I force my head backwards, delivering a blow to her nose. It crunches like paper mache, or playdough with sticks in it, which probably means it's broken. That's enough to make her flinch, which allows for me to untangle our limbs and throw her off.

She shrieks and tumbles over the Lazy boy recliner, which remains defiantly upright. I follow, darting around the recliner with the grace of a new born giraffe. I force myself on top, straddle her and shove a hand into her throat. I don't enjoy being so brutal and the connotations of mounting a top of her are rather negative, but needs must and all that.

I think that's how you use that saying.

In the dark of my apartment I can just barely see her face. Rather what she isn't holding in her hands and moaning about.

"Dawn?" She opens her eyes and I know it for sure. She's still got the long brown hair, but by god she's grown. The imprint of her body reminds me of that, and in case I haven't been obvious enough: she's really _really_ grown up (sexy).

"Hello, Xander."

"No, that's really not what you say to someone after trying to strangle them."

She lets out a week laugh; it's as limp as a street vendor hot dog. "How's the weather?" About as appetizing too.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was trying to knock you unconscious."

"Why?"

She grins, her teath reflect the light from the street lamps outside. "Are you sure you want to know?"

It's a lascivious grin, a poisonous one and completely fake. It doesn't take my experience with women to see that.

"I don't remember you being that kind of girl." My one weakness: an opportunity for sarcasm.

"How would you know? You left." She sounds bitter, so very bitter it hurts. In the dark I see her make a face worse than when she was cradling her broken nose.

My grip on her throat tightens and I can't help from growling, "You know I didn't have a choice."

"They would have let you become a researcher, take a different position." It's rushed out, she's lost her composure too, she's squirming out from between my thighs. The sensation isn't unpleasant, but the situation makes it a little disturbing.

"And you think that-" No, getting angry won't solve anything. I take a couple deep breaths to calm myself, realizing just as I've finished it sounds like I'm trying to initiate phone sex.

Awkward. I try to disguise it with a shocking question.

"So why does the Watcher's Council need my help."

"They want you dead." She denies immediately. I can't see her face, but it's pretty obvious she's lying.

And even if they did want me dead: "They wouldn't have sent you."

"I volunteered." That made more sense. "They sent Vi."

Oh...

Shit. I remember Vi, red hair, good fighter, very competent.

"She's standing behind me isn't she?"

With her back to the wall Dawn has a clear view of my apartment. I almost wish I'd closed the bedroom door, but then a mess of unwashed laundry is hardly my biggest concern right now.

"Yep, she's also carrying a really big lamp."

"I like that lamp." I say, turning as much as I can toward the figure standing in the dark. "Could you use something else... Please? "

"Okay," says Vi behind us, I can hear her putting my lamp back on my side table.

A bit of shuffling later and the baseball bat collides with the back of my head.

This time it's done properly.

* * *

And there it is, short, but really only the setup for what's to come. I expect this to be pretty big

And please: Questions, Comments, Criticisms? Review, it helps me stay motivated.


	2. Back From Africa

As Always, I don't own anything.

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**Chapter 2**

Back from Africa

or

Indignation with a glass of Whine

_5 Years Ago_

Returning from Africa was like high school.

That needs a bit of expansion.

That is, it's like being an awkward freshman in high school. Everything's different, you don't know anyone, and the friends you thought you had have moved onto bigger things, like the jazz band, or a varsity team. In this case it was running a multinational supernatural defense force.

Which makes it seem way more like a super sentai show than it really is.

It's not that I wasn't part of the Watcher's council, my entire purpose in Africa was to find and track Slayers for them, but I was so far removed from the inner workings or the politics it was like I was a stranger to them.

Africa was simple in comparison; I listened for rumors about super powered girls, then tracked them down and offer them a position as a slayer. Some said yes, few said no.

Head quarters for African operations were run out of a small office in Cape Town, but most of the time I found myself up north in Sudan or Somalia. If you've been keeping up with foreign events, you'd know that those are currently major conflict zones, with death tolls exceeding quadruple digits. Seniority dictated I take the riskier assignments. Which was probably fair; my eye patch made me look like a mercenary, which in a conflict zone, is as common as an innocent bystander. Just look disgruntled and walk like you know where you're going and no one will harass you.

After all, stealth isn't just avoiding sight, it's making yourself completely fit in to the point people are sure you were always there.

Africa led to the realization that demon's were not the cause of human suffering. Call it naiveté, but I was under the impression that demons were the sole cause of war and demons were who we were going to rescue the slayers from. I was wrong, humans were the real danger.

Pardon what may sound like ethnocentrism on my part, but women in Somalia and Sudan are not treated particularly well. They're abused, often sold into marriage, and if they're a slayer; they're turned into a weapon and pointed in the wrong direction. It's tough to rebel when your whole life you're told to listen to who you perceive are your betters.

Reforms to gender bias, and simple sexism, are slow; which isn't helped by the patriarchal nature of the government and public opinion. Feminism is beat down and women and girls are repressed and abused.

But sometimes, maybe once in a hundred, they fight back.

The first slayer I ever encountered was a girl named Anita in Sudan. She was kind hearted teenager from Khartoum being held in jail for violating article 152 of the penal code. If you haven't been keeping up with Sudanese politics; article 152, which was implemented in 1991, stipulates that any conduct or clothing in violation of public decency can be punished with up to 40 lashes. There is no guideline for what constitutes indecency, which means police officers are free to levy their own judgement.

The track record for this law is just about what you expect, beatings, rape, murder. It's basically a tailor cut way for the police to abuse their power and pass it off as diligence. You probably wouldn't be surprised at how many political targets are attacked with this law.

These days, if you go out with gun and murder half a dozen rapists, the government will literally tear the city apart to find you and hang you by the balls. They'll spend hours poring over grainy CCTV footage just to see if your reflection was caught in a store window, and then they'll invent the enhance button to make it visible.

But let those same rapists loose on an innocent girl and watch the police stand around and twiddle their thumbs.

_"Are you sure she was raped?"_

_"Are you sure she's a girl?"_

_"Is rape against the law?"_

So what do you think a girl does, after being subjected to that kind of treatment? For an ordinary human their options are limited; they can try to cause public outrage, but the Public Order Police have been known to kill female activists if they get too loud. They only other option is to swallow it, bury your feelings and stay silent, but that's as bad as saying you consented to the indignity in the first place.

Slayers are no ordinary humans.

So she takes revenge. Revenge with inhuman strength and innate fighting ability meant to kill demons.

14 dead, 5 injured; three of those in critical condition, one of which will be permanently crippled, and one scared teenage girl on the run for her life.

She ended up joining a gang, and considering her strength she was a shoo in for the muscle. No one could touch her, lest they risk a broken arm.

Another watcher thought she was a sort of modern Phoolan Devi: a woman in northern India who rose to fame as the "Bandit Queen of India" in the early 1980's. According to her biography, her descent to banditry began after she was raped by her husband at the age of 11. Later came the upper-caste members of her community. When she turned to the police they repeated this indignity. Tired of her anger, the village hired a bandit gang was hired to remove her; she instead joined and fell in love with the leader. Together they ran the gang for years, before he was killed, and Phoolan Devi was captured.

I think he saw the movie once and thought he was being clever.

News of Anita came to us by way of an informant working for the Sudanese National Intelligence and Security Service, NISS for short. In turn he gave me up to his superiors for a quick buck, which when dealing with informants like him is par for course.

They grabbed me from my hotel, pointed me in her direction and pushed an AK-47 into my hands. They wanted her alive, to be made an example of. As if the public lashing wasn't enough. But Watcher's Council's policy of government co-operation prevented me from shoving the AK up their ass and holding the trigger till it clicked empty. Instead I smiled and grinned the entire time, then turned around and threw the AK into the nearest bin.

I tracked her into the Nuba Mountains, an area in South Kordofan, it's an area home mostly to indigenous tribes, and it's largely inaccessible by motor vehicle. Since 1983, ownership of the Nuba Mountains has been in dispute, leading to indiscriminate bombings, attacks on civilians, and mines being placed at entry points under orders of President Bashir. This makes it an ideal place to run from the law, as they'd never risk venturing into the mountains for fear of sparking a powder keg. (These days stars like George Clooney visit the Nuba mountains to condemn Bahsir's actions and draw attention to the continuing genocide; funny how that works)

It took me two days of hiking to find her gang.

They were holed up down a ravine, which made it easy enough to smoke them out with an improvised Benghazi burner. The soldier in my head spent the two days hike, formulating plans and contingencies. By the time Anita realized it was a trap her gang were trussed up in paracord and she was corned on the edge of a cliff.

And I was bleeding out a hole in my abdomen. 7.62x39mm NATO hurts like a bitch, even if it is just ricochet.

She wouldn't give in, I don't blame her. Between being handed back to the people who beat and raped you, or going with the stranger wearing an eye patch who you believed to have killed your friends, option C was a whole lot more appealing.

She turned around and jumped off the cliff.

Slayers are remarkable athletes, they can take and deal more punishment than humanely possible, and they can perform feats of athleticism that would make an Olympic medalist green with envy. To survive a 300 meter fall onto jagged rock would a great feat of luck no matter the participant. Anita had never been lucky.

And that was it, my first job done. I'd failed the council and even worse I'd failed Anita.

The NISS could take it up the ass as far as I was concerned.

Three years of that; 15 slayers recruited, 11 rescued but released, and four lost.

It changed me. People say that college is when you discover who you are. I never went to college. Africa broke me down then made me whole again.

And violence became my home.

**- USA -**

On the day I came home I flew into Cleveland Hopkins International Airport. Everything had changed. Flat screen TV's projected baggage information and the cars pulling into the pickup lane were impossibly sleek. The roads were paved, I didn't choke on dust when opening a window, and everyone spoke English.

So it worried me when it didn't feel like home.

My instincts turned out to be right in that regard. Home is where you belong, where you have a place to contribute and grow.

There was no place for me in Cleveland. To them I was an outsider. Being one of the original Scoobies didn't mean much when most of the slayers thought you were useless. I wasn't the best researcher, or the best fighter, and I was refused from introducing the modern tactics and technology I'd learned while overseas.

In Africa it was adapt or die, and the idea of a fair fight was laughably naive. It seemed as if the slayers in Cleveland were being taught pithy quips during battle were somehow integral to winning. The psychological edge is important no doubt, but it was if they hadn't even heard of an ambush unless they were on the receiving end. Which they were, frequently.

One day while teaching Mariette, an older slayer from Pennsylvania, proper handgun technique, Robin Wood called me to the side.

"Listen Xander, I'm not sure we want our girls learning about firearms."

"What are you a politician? Fire arms are a serious issue in America, if we're operating near them, the slayers should be aware of how they work and how to use them."

"Demons don't use guns."

"Humans do."

"Well there you have it!" he said, as if he hadn't just proven my point, "The girls don't have to worry about guns."

This was the man leading North American operations... Remarkable. I'm not sure whether it was the cheese eating grin on his face or the patronizing way he said 'girls' when he was talking about slayers. A certain amount of respect for the people that risked their lives to save the world wouldn't be asking much.

In any case, I couldn't turn to my old friends for support; they were absent and off doing their own things.

Buffy was off with Dawn in Italy, too busy under the attention of a being known as The Immortal, Willow was still attached at the hip to Kennedy, whose hate on raged for me as much as mine did for hers, and Giles was much too busy being a respectable adult to fraternize with someone he still saw as a kid.

I turned into a non-person. A liminal existence.

Until someone offered me a position; Robin Wood said he wanted me to help run his operation. There was a catch of course; I'd have to lend my public backing to him. By that I mean support his methods publicly, but something like that's always part of the deal.

Can you blame me for taking it?

Robin Wood was boring, like a burlap sack full of dead kittens. Two things which might be fun separately, but together all you get is a soggy burlap sack, and dead kittens kept in a shoddy container, which is to say: no fun at all. You could expect him to quote the book and follow traditions that went obsolete during the turn of the 20th century.

The work he gave me was homework at best; crap research or errands a fifth grader could do. But Robin gave me a chance, and a place to belong. I couldn't give that up for the world.

Could you blame me? I think you would. But how do you value your experience weighed against your own selfish needs. I could have rebuffed him, charged forward pushing reform to update and modernize the council. It would have been better for the slayers, better for the organization as a whole. That sort of fortitude is what we look for in a hero.

I was nowhere near strong enough.

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Story Notes:

The format of this story will be alternating chapters of what caused his split from the council and the continuing plot line from chapter 1. Hopefully the balance works correctly and the pacing fits as planned.

Xander's a bit whiny this chapter, but I feel that's a part of his character. Not to worry, he'll be shaping up formidably very soon.

Other notes:

I make Sudan sound awful, and to be honest I softened up my description considerably. Article 152 is real and as is even worse than portrayed. You can find numerous news articles detailing the atrocities committed with that law.

Phoolan Devi is also a real person. During her years as a bandit leader she became infamous for castrating upper-caste men who had raped girls or poor women. After turning herself in, she remained in prison without trial for 11 years, eventually being released in 1994. In 1996 she entered India's Parliament as a member of the Samajwadi Party. Sadly, Phoolan Devi's story ends in July of 2001, where she was assassinated by a man claiming to represent some of the upper-caste members she had killed.

These days members of a group called the Gulabi gang, founded in 2006 by Sampat Pal Devi, act as vigilantes in North India, protecting abused women from their husbands or communities.

India hasn't totally reformed, but they're a far cry from the state that Sudan is in. I'm not advocating acculturation, and I'm trying to avoid ethnocentrism, but yeah, it's pretty bad there.

Okay, history lesson over.

Please review, I'd love to hear all comments and criticisms. And sorry, less humor this time.


	3. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the characters represented in this work, those are owned by their creators, publishers, or distributors. No profit will be made. The first crossover of this story appears this chapter, I will wait till the chapter is over before disclosing it, so it remains a pleasant surprise.

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- start -

Chapter 3

Waking up is Hard to do

or

Aren't You Suppose to be Badass

Ever since I lost my eye, I've had a particular affinity for blind awareness. With the loss of an eye comes the addition of a blind spot, and I've always felt that my mind compensated in different ways.

It's not ESP, or something outrageous like that, rather my spatial awareness seemed to have taken an impressive turn for the better; something which has saved my life more times than I'd care to experience. You see it all the time in people who lose one of their five senses, the others work to compensate for the loss.

A side effect of this is a heightened awareness when sleeping. Specifically, when waking up, I'm able to immediately discern where I am in a room and what's around me.

So forgive me for being frightened when I couldn't feel or see anything.

It might have been how dark it was; the first thing I noticed. All encompassing darkness, the kind that makes navigating your way in a desert by moonlight seem like a stroll in a commercial shopping center.

The second thing I noticed was the pain. And once I'd noticed that it was rather impossible to stop.

Leaving the state of sleep occurs differently for everyone, some are chipper and perky the instant their head leaves their pillow, others require copious amounts of coffee just to open their eyes. But everyone agrees that waking up after experiencing blunt force trauma induced unconsciousness is as much fun as listening to a collector of NAZI memorabilia wax poetic on his love of a man named Adolf. Your head feels cloudy and stuffed with cotton, and all your limbs feel as if they were sewn on by an amateur surgeon, who, instead of paying attention in medical school, did something else; like signing up for an experimental lobotomy.

Then it occurred to me, that beside badly formed metaphors, the pain in my head was from the fact that I was lying face down on a stone floor, good eye down, eye patch up. Which also explained the darkness.

It took a couple rocks back and forth to get enough speed, but somehow I managed to drudge up enough momentum to roll onto my back. I also manage to accomplish this feat looking like a particularly uncoordinated turtle. But then, it's not like I'm auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.

The room I'd been left in was a cold stone box, with a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling for illumination. Presumably the room was for holding targets of interest for the Watcher's Council, whatever demon of the week they're combating, or vampire they feel like interrogating.

The naked bulb and exposed fixture certainly set the mood, I could feel the shivers down my back.

Or wait it's actually just really damn cold and all I was wearing was a t-shirt and jeans.

That reminded me.

Quickly, I performed a thorough inventory. They'd left me in my boots, jeans, and t-shirt, but they removed the knives I kept by my ankle, and the folding knife I kept in my left pocket.

More importantly I grabbed my crotch.

Everything's still there. Thank God, that would be incredibly awkward.

I dragged myself over to the cot in the corner of the room, pulling myself up to sit on the thin, musky, mattress covered in unidentifiable substances. There's no toilet in the room, so I assume it's for short term prisoners only, or they forgot to leave a bucket. I don't want to know what the stains on the mattress are from.

Mattresses are like sponges.

In any case, there's really no point breaking free without hearing what they want first. I was under no illusion that the reason they knocked me unconscious and dragged me to an undisclosed location is to invite me to a tea party, but curiosity made me sit back and wait for the shoe to drop. Which is probably a mistake, but then it wouldn't be the first and it most certainly won't be the last.

Of course at this point the maximum amount of dramatic tension had passed since my awakening, and my captors have probably assumed that I've peaked in fear and nervousness. It's a pretty common tactic when kidnapping somebody, but it seems they neglected to stay till the end of the lecture, as this technique is entirely unhelpful when dealing with people who are experienced in kidnapping.

Not that I regularly kidnap people. It's more like a hobby.

The door swung inward, screaming on un-oiled hinges. Heavy soled English shoes stride confidently into the room, followed by size 12 combat boots, and then it's a three pairs of women's shoes I don't know the name of.

The first two are obvious, Giles, still dressed in tweed, this time a suit of rather impeccable tailoring, and Robin, every bit the armchair general in his overly dramatic tactical turtle neck. I had to force my head up to confirm the identity of the last three. Faith, Willow, Dawn; in that order.

"To what do I owe the pleasure." I drawled out, trying to look relaxed on the most uncomfortable mattress in the world

It's a welcome shock when Faith quips back "I was thinking of accessorizing with an eye patch. I wanted your fashion advice."

Dawn giggled, Robin's face twisted like he'd inhaled a lungful of fart. It was a good look.

"As charming as that would be, I believe it would be pertinent to focus on the actual reason that we brought you here." As expected Giles cut to the chase.

"Let me guess, you forgot to pay your phone bill, and you haven't learned how to email. Kidnapping is step three."

"It wasn't kidnapping." Willow protested, and as happy as I am to see her after all these years, the circumstances don't lend themselves to a heartfelt reunion.

"Not with Nancy Drew here doing the kidnapping." I twisted my head toward Dawn, "Who told you to hit me with a baseball bat? You could've given me a concussion."

"Not a bad thing" Robin muttered, Faith hit him.

"I read it in a book" Dawn protested, "They said if you wrap the baseball bat with a towel, you prevent internal bleeding."

"Which isn't the same as a concussion." Also I distinctly remember her not using a towel.

"Well excuse me, master of head injuries." She stopped, took one look at the eye patch. "Sorry."

"No, that was actually pretty funny."

Faith grinned; I glared at her with my one good eye.

"I'm also experienced with being choked." She stopped grinning.

I think at that point Robin wanted to step in to defend his girlfriends honor, but Giles cut him off before he could even begin.

"Please don't let Xander distract us from what's important."

"I'm pretty good at that."

It was his turn to glare, "Yes, yes you are."

Now, as I was saying: Xander, we need your help."

"And you thought kidnapping me would garner my eternal well wishes and cherished gratitude?" At this point I start letting my hands wander, scratching at the itches that seem to have cropped up since this conversation started; my body was starting to experience the pins and needles effect. "You're off to a great start."

"Yes, well, we figured you wouldn't be amiable to a conventional meeting. Robin believed this would be the only way to get your attention."

"And you thought he was a bastion of knowledge on diplomacy-"

"Hey, I don't have to take this!" Robin gnashed his teeth. Raising his voice in the stone chamber was akin to a roar. "We're giving you a chance to redeem yourself."

Now I really had to restrain myself from reaching over and pulling out his tongue. So I did the only thing I knew would make him mad.

I turned to Giles, "So what did you want?"

"Don't Ignore Me!-"

"Enough." It was barely a whisper. "Robin, I already told you how good he is at deflecting a conversation. If you don't want to look like a fool, don't let him play you like one. And Xander?" He turned and gave me the look a parent gives to their kid when they find the cookie jar open, and all but one of the cookies missing. "Would you please be serious."

"Fair enough... G-man" I said, resuming my scratching. "Please, continue your fascinating story."

He stifled a cough, sparing a glance at Robin before continuing. "We need your help bringing Buffy back to the Council."

I didn't quite understand that, "Me and Buff didn't exactly part on the best of terms, if you and everyone else she shares some form of emotional attachment to failed, how do you expect me to drag her back?"

"We don't expect you to convince her over a cup of tea. She's more than proven her disinterest in returning to fight. No, she's rather attached to her current beau, The Immortal."

"She's still hobnobbing with that undead Mafioso?"

"Yes, quite. She seems rather satisfied under his attention." Considering his wealth, who wouldn't be? Most women accessorize with jewelry, Buffy could choose between Ferraris.

"And what, Faith can't step up to fill the void?"

She bristled at that, "I can handle myself just fine."

"Yes," Giles continued, "Faiths competency is not at question, the issue is wasted resources. Buffy is the most senor slayer alive, she's a valuable asset that's being wasted by her refusal to leave her life of leisure."

"And you think it's unfair of her to want a break from the hardship of being a slayer?"

"While I'd be more than happy to grant her a reprieve, half a decade spent in the lap of luxury is a more than generous vacation."

I may not approve of her penchant for dating the undead, but even I'm not so cruel as to begrudge her a boyfriend.

"I'm not particularly interested in taking what little happiness Buffy has left." At this point my scratching has reached my stomach, I can't help but notice Dawn's eyes tracking the lift of my shirt. As painful as it was, Hostess going out of business provided an unexpected boon to my midsection.

"We'd offer you a spot in the Council."

"I quit, remember, I'm not interested in joining again."

"But you'd be safe!" Willow cried, and I knew instantly why she was here.

"You were the one who encouraged me to leave."

She scrunched her face in what she must have thought was her 'Resolve Face', "I thought you'd stop putting yourself in danger."

"Would you be surprised if I told you that job options for someone with an eye patch and little work experience outside fighting demons are staggeringly low?"

At that point my hand had trailed down to my crotch, I scratched shamelessly. That was enough to make the rest of the room collectively cringe.

And that was enough time for me to stuff my hand down the front of my jeans and pull out a handgun: a .380 calibre Walther PPK. I'd tell you the reason I favor this gun is for its light weight, slim design, and uncanny accuracy for a short barrel pistol, but you'd probably assume it's just because James Bond uses one.

You'd be right.

In any case, the gun got their attention and, as an added bonus, stopped the gagging.

"Alright chums, up against the wall."

Robin turned furiously to Dawn, "You said you searched him."

"I did." She said indignantly.

I cut in before he could continue his interesting and relevant line of inquiry, "Word of advice, no one's that hard when they're unconscious, unless they've swallowed a bottle of Viagra." Her face went red. Faith choked on her laugh.

By now my limbs were feeling pretty good and the pain in my head had long passed, I stood up easily."Everyone against the far wall please."

No one moved.

I flicked the safety off; cliché, but effective.

"I said please." Slowly they shuffled over. I carefully kept Faith out of range, placing Willow between us at all times. Giles and Robin were too contained by the others to pose a credible threat, and if Dawn's earlier competency was anything to go by, I wouldn't struggle much there.

Blame a subconscious reflex for gloating, but I couldn't help but throw in one last taunt, "It's been fun catching up, but I've got an episode of Hannibal on my PVR that just can't wait." Then I grabbed the door and slammed it closed.

The door was locked by a single sliding bolt. Following that, I secured the door strike reinforcers at each corner of the frame. Nought but half a second after, the door shook from the force of impact. It took three more ineffectual strikes before Faith gave up.

That left me in the basement, not really a surprise considering the lack of windows, and lack of evidence of it being a room that had been artificially sealed. The concrete walls and floors were clearly original, and the room was likely intended for storage. That would also explain the cold that permeated the room.

It was time to get my exploring on. Come on vamanos, everybody let's go.

- Explore! -

15 minutes later as I finished fiddling with the door, someone behind me coughed.

My hand gripped the Walther, pulling it from my waist, but before I could bring it to ready, a hand snaked around my own and tore it free. Attached to the hand was a slim arm, and following that back to its owner revealed Kennedy wearing the largest and widest shit eating grin I'd ever seen.

Stupid on my part, where Willow goes, she's sure to follow.

The gun disappeared.

"Not in the face?"

She punched me in the solar plexus, "Okay." And then she kneed me in the face.

So much for honesty.

While I remained a lump of bruised flesh curled on the floor, she stepped over me and unlocked the door. "Willow, are you okay?" I guess I couldn't blame her for being worried. It was almost touching; the concern she showed, the gentle embrace.

No wait, screw that.

Fuck! My stomach hurts so fucking much and my face too. Fuck.

As I was doing my best impression of a pill bug, Kennedy, because who else would, grabbed me and dragged me back into the room, with my face.

"Dumbass was fiddling with the door; he didn't even manage to jam the lock"

From my position on the floor my jaw scraped against cement, "If I wasn't in so much pain; I'd say something really witty."

She snorted.

Methinks she still doesn't like me.

A kick to the gut confirmed my theory.

"I hope those sweatpants are comfy, 'cause they aren't doing much for your thighs."

She kicked me again.

"Get up you piece of shit." Kennedy grabbed me by the neck and hauled me upright. The occupants of the room looked pretty amused.

"So," I said, moulding my face into a study on innocence, "you were talking about a benefits package?"

"You get your position back, no strings attached." Giles pushed his freshly polished glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"If you don't want me to talk Buffy in to returning, how do you expect her to leave-" realization hit me, like the soft sensation of an ocean breeze, the sudden and obvious truth surfaced. "You want me to kill The Immortal."

Robin grinned a very unpleasant grin, "thereby giving Buffy all the motivation she needs." He continued as if lecturing a classroom, "It won't be easy, but we believe you have the necessary skills to pull this off."

"And because my methods look nothing like the council's."

The grin got worse.

As if sensing this was a good time to press forward, Giles gestured towards Willow, "We've prepared a contract for you to sign. It basically states the conditions of your task, as well as the various obligations you would be liable for. It's a mere formality of course."

Willow presented a stack of papers from thin air, at least, there was no way she was hiding that in her jeans. She passed them to Giles, who immediately passed them to me.

"Please, Xander, It'd be better for everyone if you came back."

I think Robin would disagree; he's still giving me the stink eye.

The document was standard lawyer speak, filled with double negatives and recursive sentences designed to mislead and misdirect.

Delightful clauses such as:

_Xander Harris will act under the oversight and direction of Robin Wood. Orders issued by Robin Wood will be considered equal to the clauses contained within this contract._

_Xander Harris will keep Robin Wood, and by extension The Watcher's Council updated as to his actions and whereabouts._

_Xander Harris will take all credit for his actions and will not state, imply, or otherwise implicate The Watcher's Council and its member's involvement in any of his actions._

_Xander Harris must kill, terminate, eradicate, 'dust', eighty-six, the being known as 'The Immortal', the vampire currently dating, or involving himself romantically and/or sexually, with the Slayer known as Buffy Anne Summers._

Charming.

Further conditions detailed what would constitute completion. Basically, reporting back to Giles and giving a full debriefing. And all that didn't even cover the long paragraphs hidden in the fine print. Which, in a regular contract, probably involves signing away all of my earthly possessions. But this is a magical contract, so earthly possessions aren't worth nearly enough, it is highly likely that by signing this contract I'd be giving up my soul. Or testicles, it really depends.

Even more worrying was the magic energy practically humming off the pages. Magical contracts are as powerful as the Witch or Wizard who makes them. High level contracts require high level magi, to ensure the repercussions of violation are powerful enough to make the strongest demon afraid of breaking contract. To sum up: strong magic equals a strong contract.

As far as I know, Willow is still the most powerful Witch or Wizard in the world. Her nearest competitors are lakes to her oceans, which makes this contract particularly volatile, especially considering her penchant for instability.

Violating the terms of this contract would be tantamount to suicide, except in this case it's using a nuclear bomb in place of a tantō blade. I could expect the magical backlash to fry me from the inside out, effectively turning me into homebrew fish and chips. I don't know whether to feel flattered over the attention to detail, or horrified over the meticulous stipulations that are assuredly hiding in the fine print.

Capping off the legal document are the signatures of all the names involved, excluding Buffy's, The Immortal's, and my own. An empty line indicates where they'd like me to sign.

"You'll be bringing Kennedy with you." Giles said, "She's agreed to act as our liaison."

Judging from the look on her face, she wants to do it as much as I do.

"She looks old enough not to need a baby sitter."

"Fuck you."

Robin looked disapproving, or maybe constipated. More intriguing was Giles, who for all intents should look just as disgruntled, instead he had a somewhat pleased expression plastered on his face.

"That's too bad Xander." He waved for his posse to leave, "We'll give you a bit of time to reconsider." Then he plucked the contract from between my fingers and swaggered out.

Bizarre.

The rest followed him shortly, with Dawn and Willow spared me pleading looks that would have been enough to guilt trip me 5 years ago. Robin followed swiftly on Giles's heels, probably already soiling his nose. Kennedy sneered while unsubtly wrapping an arm around Willow.

That left Faith.

Once everyone was out of earshot, she broke the silence, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Now that I can focus on her, I can see she's changed a lot in five years. Gone is the rebel biker look; instead of leathers that hug her curves like an overeager teenage boy, she's dressed like the respectable, but still daring, counterpart to Robin.

"No, you don' t understand I-"

"Robin wants you to quit, that's why the council needs Buffy."

She recoils like she's been slapped. "How did-"

"I'm guessing he wants to settle down and start a family, wants the trophy housewife he's always dreamed of."

"It's not like that." She says it like a sigh, and at that point I can see how tired she really is; behind the makeup and cocky grin, is someone worried about her friends.

"You stopped smoking; did he make you do that, part of his taming of the shrew?"

Her silence is an answer unto itself.

"But you're not done, are you? You want to keep on fighting."

Our relationship may have been estranged during her time in the darkness, but we buried the hatchet long ago. Between us something has always clicked, my desperate need to be important, her own insecurities involving her place as the second slayer. That need for recognition was something we had both experienced.

"Yes. I don't want to settle down, do the suburban thing. Kids, dog, white picket fence, It's not me."

"You have something you can do for the world."

"Exactly," She pushed herself off the wall, "But Robin won't listen, no matter how many times I tell him."

I'm always open to bashing Robin, but right now, something about that feels wrong.

"I'm sorry."

It's enough, "Don't be." She smiled a wry twist of her lips. There was a pause, a moment where she contemplated leaving, that awkward lull in conversation.

For some reason, the face of one of my old Slayer's resurfaced. Whether I was genuinely curious, or I just didn't want Faith to leave, I'll never tell.

"How's Farheen doing?"

"Who?" she said, a bit confused by the sudden question, "Oh, wait. Farheen? She's doing great, one of the best slayers we have."

"Good."

An idea hit her, "Were you the one who inspired her to become the walking arsenal?"

"I just helped her make it happen."

She laughed, full bore, cathartic. I couldn't keep myself from smiling if I tried. I knew then, whatever else I had done, repairing bridges with Faith had been truly worthwhile.

"That's great boy-toy. That's great." She pulled the door open, "I'll see you around boy-toy, good luck with The Immortal." Then she shut the door and locked it.

Thanks, Faith.

She must have known she was telling me she wasn't guarding the door, Dawn was definitely being pulled off field duty, for obvious reasons.

Which means it's Kennedy's pleasure to guard me.

I give that a non sarcastic perfect. It's time to make plans.

The room certainly has the essence of a prison, but whoever designed it aimed for fashion over function.

The door doesn't have a peep hole or food slot, meaning the jailers don't have the ability to observe the prisoner without opening the door. Additionally, as a holdover from when this room was not an illegal jail, the walls are insulated, preventing the escape of sound. It isolates the prisoner, but prevents the guards from listening in. There's also no camera, or microphone of any kind, I have enough experience with bugs to know where they'd be placed. The mattress is empty, the bed frame is not hollow, and the bricks are all real.

However, the most glaring mistake was the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. That would be the fulcrum of my escape.

In fairness the walls may be insulated, but slayers are gifted with remarkable hearing. So still I tried to be as quiet as possible when dragging the bed underneath the light bulb. The metal bed frame scraped lightly on the stone floor, and I had to lift it as I pulled to reduce the noise.

Once positioned, I have just enough height to unscrew the bulb, which I placed gently on the mattress. A small chipped piece of stone was enough to remove the socket. I tucked the four screws into my back pockets as they came out. The socket I placed next to the light bulb.

Finally, I could get at the wiring, it's good stuff, the kind they used before metal and plastic got expensive, which makes it thick and sturdy. There's also extra left in the ceiling, no doubt the result of a cautious builder, I gently pulled out as much as I could, before it stopped tight. I pulled down hard, lifting my feet to get extra force. With a quick snap, the wire broke.

It must have caught on a nail; the end was frayed and torn. In any case, I was left with at least a meter of sturdy flexible wire.

I returned the bed and mattress back to their original location, then took the light bulb and smashed it in front of the door, though far away enough it wasn't in the arc of the door's swing. I stepped over it to the door.

"Hey Kennedy."

No response.

"How does it feel to know you'll never be as good as slayer Buffy."

There was a very audible sigh, "What are you talking about?"

"Well, I figure if you were as good a slayer as she was, you wouldn't need to bring her back."

"Hey, screw you, I'm twice the slayer Buffy was."

"Clearly you've been filling in just fine."

"I don't need to justify myself to you."

"Please, I could take you."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Try again Harris. You're not making me come in there."

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Damn. I'll have to take it up a notch.

"Fair enough..." I paused for dramatic tension, get that vibe right, "How does it feel to know I got to Willow first, and that she'll always put me first. I'm guessing she's the one who recommended me for the contract, made a big show of bringing me back."

Silence.

"Okay, Harris, you got your wish."

Perfect. To be honest, my taunts aren't really enough to annoy her, they're shallow and Kennedy's not nearly dumb enough to believe me. But she hardly needs an excuse to toss me around a bit more, and I don't have the brain power to come up with something genuinely clever.

I stepped back, over the remains of the light bulb, and tucked the wire in my back pocket. If I did this right, I wouldn't need the screws.

Kennedy is a phenomenal slayer, her instincts are good, and she trains herself to a peak level of fitness. She's faster than me, stronger than me, and thanks to the bleeding effect of slayer knowledge, her martial skill exceeds mine by a wide margin. Her exploits are well known among slayers, she's often touted as yardstick with which to be measured against.

There's no way she can win this fight.

She started with the smart move, slamming the door open, just in case I was hiding behind it.

"Yo she bitch, let's go."

She charges, lowering her shoulders for the tackle. I assume she's aiming for a takedown, where she'd be able to ground and pound to her hearts delight. She's anything but subtle.

Before she could reach me, her left foot slapped down on the glass, her right foot followed swiftly. Deep from her lungs she bellowed a cry of pain, stumbling forward as her legs gave out. Blood flowed across the stone floor, smearing like abstract art.

I lunged around her, pulling the wire out and looping it over her neck, I crossed my arms behind her head, pulling up while simultaneously pressing down on her back with my knee. Even disoriented with pain I didn't trust her not to be able to overpower me, her slayer strength is truly monstrous. As is, she squirmed violently, forcing me to pull even harder.

The pull upward is to cut off blood circulation; in other words, a blood choke.

Six seconds that felt like an hour passed and finally she stopped struggling. I don't intend to kill her, so I released the tension and collapsed to the floor.

Monstrous strength doesn't even begin to describe it; I don't think an inch of me wasn't sweating. I took ten seconds to breathe, just force air down my lungs. Once I caught my breath I used the wire to hog tie her, arms behind the back, connected to her feet.

I don't doubt she'll be able to break her bonds, but extra insurance never hurt.

Her person yielded nothing useful, neither cash nor car keys. So I left her on the floor, locked the room and closed the door reinforcers.

From my earlier exploring, I knew where the stairs were, and there wasn't anything else in the basement of interest.

The stairs were old and hardwood, which meant every second step let out a heart pounding squeak.

No one seemed to have noticed my escape, which made sense once I saw Dawn and Faith watching TV in the house's living room. The volume was cranked all the way to ear-splitting. I could have screamed my way up the stairs and they wouldn't have heard me.

According to the TV show Martha is a big whore, because Andrea's boyfriend cheated with her, but it's okay because Andrea's a bitch. Also Martha's vagina is a black hole that consumes men and swallows small woodland creatures.

I don't even.

Getting back to a more important topic, the house is a Georgian Revival style, probably mid 20th century if I know my construction as well as I think. The fixtures and details point towards it being a strict interpretation of Palladian Classical structure, but you probably don't care about the whys. In any case, that tells me they haven't taken me far from my apartment, the style is distinct for certain regions of Canada.

A music stand by the door was filled with random trinkets, including a key tray.

Bingo.

A quick sift and I found a set of car keys; they read Dodge. Detroit Iron, boo yah. I was praying for a muscle car.

Sneaking across a house while wearing boots feels as awkward as it looks; it's all Charlie Chapman miming as I tiptoe to the front door. Opening the door will chirp the alarm, there's no way around that, which means I have to sprint to the car faster than they'll respond.

I gave myself a second to catch my breath. Then I swallowed a last lungful of air and threw the door open.

The curtains were drawn closed, so I had no idea what time of day it was. But outside it was as bright as a newborn star. I forced my eye open and barreled out the door into the light. No distinction, just the color white.

Three steps and the alarm chirped, just an innocuous beep, but that would have been enough. I started to hear shouting.

As my vision returned, I almost ran off the porch, instead I took the steps by twos, thundering down them towards the street. An assault of Canadian maple and the warm sensation of sunlight encapsulated me.

No, no time for poetry, if they caught me, Willow would use some obscure magic to work me like a marionette, or Robin would shove an arm up my ass and work me like a puppet in exactly the same way.

I fought past the blindness, stumbling out to the sidewalk as voices from the house began to rise in volume. Desperately I mashed the unlock button on the remote. A triple trill sounded in front of me.

A minivan.

A white minivan.

A white V6 minivan. Oh wait.

It's not an ideal getaway vehicle, but it's probably the fastest minivan I'll ever drive. I threw the door open, jammed the key in and twisted till the car rumbled to life. Then I slammed on the gas and peeled away down the suburb streets. The traction control light blinked wildly as if screaming in protest. Soccer moms of suburban America would be proud.

It turns out they hadn't dragged me far from Toronto; I was in one of its numerous suburbs, not that I was planning on returning to my apartment. No, that avenue would be cut off; now that they knew I'd escaped.

I pulled the car into the parking lot of a fast food joint, I needed to find the quickest route to the airport, and Toronto was no longer safe.

As I reached over to the glove compartment to search for a map, a figure in the back of the car suddenly sat up from where they were hiding in the trunk.

"Hey Xander! Where are we headed?" Said Vi, with far too much enthusiasm.

No matter what anyone says, I did not scream. I released a manly yelp of surprise.

I screamed and maybe leaked a little.

"Holy Shit!" I said, "What the hell are you doing here?"

She shrugged, "Someone had to come with you, and Kennedy's in no condition to do it."

"What."

"I don't really know what you did, but I assume you knocked her out and locked her in the basement."

"How did-"

"Giles said you'd do that." And then she pulled out a very familiar stack of papers, "Congratulations on agreeing to the contract." She gestured to a specific piece of very small print.

_Xander Harris acknowledges his agreement to this contract after reading, by taking possession of the 2010 Dodge Grand Caravan VIN #REDACTED# belonging to the Watcher's Council._

Below, my signature was burned onto the contract; the paper was yellowed from whatever mystical heat made the impression.

Unbelievable, they made me sign a contract by agreeing to a rental car clause.

I just got played like a fiddle. While the player tap danced and sang. What a blunder; I knew Giles looked too smug strutting out the room.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" She said, putting a very serious look upon her face.

"Yes."

"Oh... well, I'm not." She crawled up to the passenger seat and dropped herself in.

"Wait," I said. "Before we continue I have to ask you a question. Please be aware that the answer you give will severely affect my mood for the rest of our trip.

Was Kennedy in on it?" By the end of my tirade, my voice had raised to a desperate shout, and I was clutching her shoulders with talons instead of fingers.

"She had no clue."

"Oh thank god."

Vi seemed unsure of how to deal with my relief, displaying equal parts of irritation, for beating up Kennedy, and amusement, for beating up Kennedy.

"So Boss, what's the plan?"

"The plan is, I got to get my Big Mac on."

"What." Her turn to look surprised.

I gestured out the window at the golden arch hovering across the street, "I'm hungry, and I haven't had anything to eat since you knocked me out with a baseball bat. I'll be right back. You stay here, I'm parked illegally."

"Hey, I'm not supposed to leave you alone."

I leaned back in the minivan, "Do you really think I'm going to pull a fast one on you? That contract prevents any attempt at subverting its restrictions, which includes contacting a wizard of my own."

"Fine," She said, "Get me a coke."

I walked the distance to the front door quickly, holding it open to let a harried mother usher her three boys out to the car. Then I stepped into the building, the smell of fried food was like a second barrier. Manning the till was a thin teenager, who looked more interested in his co-workers ass than his job.

"Excuse me, could I borrow a phone? I'm having some car trouble outside."

The boy's face was pock marked, and when he spoke they moved like undulating waves across his face, "I don't know, that's against store policy."

I smiled genially, "Come on, I won't tell anyone. Help a guy out."

He looked uncertain, I turned up the smile, "Well, okay." He gestured over to the corner of the counter, where he pulled a corded phone from under the table. "Go ahead." He returned to admiring his co-worker.

"Thank you" I said, while tapping out a number.

The trick with information brokers is that you have to make it worth their time. It helps if you've saved their life and they owe you one.

As expected the man on the other end picked up immediately, "Yes? This is Anderson."

"Hey, it's Xander, I need some help."

"Again, Harris? What kind of trouble have you gotten into this time?"

"Bad trouble. I need to know everything you know about The Immortal."

"Undead vampire, head of a very prolific Mafia group."

"That's it?"

"He's old."

"You're an asshole."

"I know a guy in England, okay? His name's Professor Keaton, Hiraga Keaton, he's an expert on Europe, okay?"

"Okay."

Anderson rattled off a number, I wrote it on my palm using a pen I swiped from the other side of the counter.

"Now, listen Xander, I like you, okay. But if you're involved with The Immortal, I really can't be seen helping you, okay?" If he was clamming up on this, then no other information broker would even give me a lead to follow.

"Yeah, thanks for everything Anderson." I tapped the switch hook, the receiver spat out a dull hum. Then I dialled the number on my Palm.

"Hello? This is Daniel O'Connell." A deep voice, older, with a faint Irish accent.

"Hi, I'm looking for Hiraga Keaton."

"Ah," the man said, "Do you have a case open?"

"A case?"

"Yes, for our detective agency, of course." O'Connell chuckled, it came over the phone as static "Well, we're mostly retired now."

"No, I just want to ask him some questions about Italy."

The man snorted, "Oh, for his other job. Well, he's in Berlin right now, working a case; I can contact you when he returns."

I spared a glance at the door; it seemed Vi's suspicion's hadn't been raised. "It's rather urgent, is it possible that I could meet him in Berlin?"

O'Connell paused, "I'm sure that should be fine." He told me where Keaton was staying, and the email I could use to contact him. By now my hand was starting to look like a high school art project.

"Thank you very much."

"No problem." He said, "I hope he'll be of use."

I replaced the handset. "Hey, thanks."

The cashier shrugged, "its okay. Do you need anything else?"

"Sure, Big Mac and a coke."

- Scene Break -

"Took you a while." Vi grumbled.

"I had to pee." She took her coke wordlessly, with only a grimace to show her disgust.

I put the minivan back on the highway, one hand on the wheel, the other clutching my hamburger.

I'd asked the cashier for directions to the airport, and contrary to his appearance, his directions were both precise and concise. I was perfectly happy to travel in silence, taking the necessary time to contemplate and scheme my way out of this latest predicament.

Vi was much more inclined toward conversation.

"So where are we headed Boss?"

"Don't call me Boss."

"So where are we headed One-eye."

ಠ.ಠ

or rather:

ಠ.#

She grinned. "Boss good?"

"Boss is great." I groaned, "We're headed for Berlin."

"Not Rome?"

"We need information before we can act."

"That's why we're going to see Professor Keaton right?" The impish look on her face was only enhanced by the straw dangling from her lips.

"You're entirely too good at this."

She grinned. "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

"Oh no, I'm definitely Bogart, you're Rains."

"How do you figure?"

"I'm the disgruntled anti-hero, you're the one shackled to a job."

"Shut up One-eye."

I could make this work.

- end chapter -

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own Master Keaton and the characters within, those belong to Naoki Urasawa.

Story Notes:

Okay, that took a while. I'm not 100% on this chapter, but I wanted to get it out to finally get moving on the story.

This chapter wasn't full of action, but I'd like to think the interplay between characters more than made up for it. In particular I'm hoping the chemistry between Xander and Vi works, as you'll be seeing plenty more of it. Oh, and Farheen will be important in later chapters, remember that name.

No real historical or factual notes, other than my spiel about Georgian revival style houses. It's not all bullshit, as that style really does only mostly show up on the East or West coast of Canada and not typically in between (prairie provinces, where Georgian style houses are far more likely to be imitations). Not that this is a defined rule. I assume of course, that no reader really cares, and this is merely self indulgent wank on my part. Apologies.

As always, review, criticize; no seriously, tear this one to shreds, the next chapters must be better.


	4. Chapter 4

DISCLAIMER: I don't eown the characters represented in this work, those are owned by their creators, publishers, or distributors. No profit will be made. See end for surprise character.

* * *

Chapter 4

One Badass Chicken

or

I Hope Two Plot Lines Aren't Too Confusing

_5 years ago._

Robin's office was arranged like a high school headmaster's. Not especially a surprise, but it still left me with unpleasant flashbacks.

The heavy oak door opened beside a row of chairs, placed for those waiting for their turn. On the walls were various photos and important looking documents, diplomas, awards, or something. The lights were arranged to subtly focus in the direction of his desk.

And god, what a desk. An antique double fronted half pedestal, fashioned out of mahogany with brass fittings. Probably made in the 18th century, it was a gorgeous representation of woodworking craftsmanship, and Robin kept it constantly burdened and completely unoiled.

Instead of letting the pleasant smell of well worn wood permeate the room, he'd plugged an air freshener into the wall socket. Something like the stench of wildflowers filled the room, 10 minutes was enough to make me feel nauseous.

With no chair in front for visitor's use, conversations were held with one party standing and the other lounging behind a heavy mahogany desk.

In this case, it was Andrew standing in front of the desk, with me sitting by the door. Robin was reclined in a Herman Miller Aeron chair, a tasteless office chair that clashed with his gorgeous desk, listening with half hearted attention as Andrew stumbled around his greeting.

It was Andrew, so I'd forgive anyone for dozing, but for once he was talking about something genuinely interesting. Or at least he started his briefing in an interesting way.

"So because of the way the contract was structured, she ended up immolating herself." He was shaking, he was so excited.

Robin scratched his head, "I'm sorry, structured? You can't just start an entire debriefing, with what sounds like a conclusion."

It was still Andrew, after all.

Andrew looked shocked, "Haven't you read my report?"

Robin glanced at a rather intimidating pile of papers precariously stacked on the corner of his desk. Carefully, with the precision of a surgeon, he extracted a manila folder. The cover was labeled in Andrew's handwriting and the seal to keep it tidy was clearly unbroken.

He looked back to Andrew. "Of course I have, but assume I haven't." He gave me an eye roll when Andrew wasn't looking, I responded with half the rolling.

"Well," Andrew said, clearing his throat, "three weeks ago we got a report about a magic shop burning down, in Edgewater."

Robin waved a hand for him to continue.

"We did a bit of digging and it turned out the fire was caused by a witch spontaneously combusting."

Now that doesn't happen every day.

"That doesn't happen every day." Robin said.

Damn it.

Andrew's choked out one of those laughs you can only perform when your boss delivers a terrible joke.

It sounded better in my head.

"Right, and so, she, uh, crafted a magical contract with her boss when she got hired." Now he was gesturing at maps and diagrams that neither existed nor made any spatial sense. "It was designed to make him subjugate himself to her. I mean, like an indentured servitude thing."

"Slavery, you mean."

Robin shot me a dirty look. He probably wanted me to stay quiet.

Andrew twisted to look at me without moving his feet, "Err… Right." He turned back to Robin, "If her Boss disobeyed, he'd go up in a cloud of smoke."

Like the building, apparently.

"But, 'cause of the structure of the contract, she ended up on the subservient end instead."

Robin nodded, "By structure, do you mean the way it was written?"

"Yes." Andrew said being perfectly clear, "Well, no." he said, not being clear at all.

Robin gave him a look.

"I mean, sure, the contract was all lawyery and tricky, but by structure I mean the physical construction itself. The genius was in the ink. She mixed it with her own blood, so the contract was tied directly to her magic."

"I saw the contract, it wasn't hand written."

"Please," Andrew said, "This is the 21st century; she injected her blood into the printer cartridges, we found used syringes in her apartment."

Ingenious.

Robin shrugged, "That didn't do her much good, she still ended up frying herself."

"Yes," Andrew said, "What she didn't realize was that her boss managed to adjust the contract. He used her seal, and made himself the master. So when she tried to kill him: poof, extra crispy."

The seal he was talking about was an item most magical practitioners used. They were imbued with a person's magic, and they allowed for someone to quickly sign documents or add their power to a ward. The methodology escaped me, as I always tried to stay away from magic. Whether it was intentional or not, magic always seemed to end in disaster when I was involved.

"I see." Robin said, displaying a face of stoic indifference. "If it was her magic that formed the contract, why is it, then, that she still suffered the effects of violating its conditions?"

"The magic doesn't care! It tore her apart from the inside! That's the beauty of it."

I wouldn't call magical immolation beautiful. Andrew wasn't of the same opinion.

"It's just; I think this whole contract thing is a great idea. It could revolutionize the way we do business. I mean, monetary ramifications are hardly a deterrent when it comes to certain demon clans." He was shaking now, so excited his cheeks were red from forgetting to breathe. "This way enforcement is automatic and completely unavoidable, I mean, this stuff is totally unexplored, I could – I mean we could be pioneers!

"Forget it." Robin said, "Giles will never go for it." But I could already see him puzzling it over.

"It's got great potential!"

That's what you call a guy with buck teeth and a Daffy Duck voice.

Robin shook his head, "I don't know. I'm not feeling it. We've been handling things fine. Why complicate things?"

"I'll talk to Giles," Andrew said, "I'm sure once I explain it to him he'll approve."

"Go ahead." Robin said. "I clearly can't stop you."

Andrew nodded while reaching out to grab the case files. Robin stopped him by put a hand down on top of the pile.

"Let me look them over, alright?"

"Sure" Andrew looked ecstatic, "Sure, absolutely, go right ahead. Just remember, it's my idea."

"Yeah, okay." Robin said, nodding his head, "You go talk to Giles."

Not so much throwing him out, as holding open the door and staring really hard in its general direction. Andrew took the hint and made like a tree.

He got out of there.

I let the door close before I stood up.

Robin tossed the contract papers into his bottom drawer with practiced disinterest.

"Well, it's good to see you Xander."

I wasn't really in the mood for pleasantries, it was 10:30am by then, and his email this morning told me to arrive at 10am.

"Your email said you had an assignment for me?"

Robin nodded, "Yes, something which I think you'll enjoy." He pulled a manila folder from a stack of papers off his desk, "We've been getting some information lately about an underground fighting arena run by a group of demons."

"Is it clan run?"

"No, independents; a mix of different species."

Not unusual. Fight clubs were typically formed by outcasts, those who wanted to pit themselves against other demons without the risk of starting a war. It's not that all demons formed into clans, but it wasn't uncommon for demon species to stick with those of the same species.

"Do you want me to bust it apart?"

"No, observation for now. We're hoping this'll lead to more information on their activity. we'll use slayers if we take them down."

I wasn't dumb enough to start an argument.

"Where?"

"Here in Cleveland actually."

"You're kidding."

"Surprisingly not, it's only a twenty minute drive from here. It appears they've set up shop in the basement of an office building."

I could tell Robin was a little incredulous too. What group of porridge brained imbeciles gathered a demon fight club naught half an hour from the largest collection of demon fighter this side of North America.

That just screamed forethought.

"It's amazing the kind of intelligence you get from people who spend their time beating each other half to death."

"Indeed."

Did I say that out loud?

Robin continued, holding the folder above the desk, "All the information you could need is in here. Their next scheduled fight is tonight at 9:30 tonight and I expect you to attend."

Thanks for the heads up.

"Yes I realize it's rather last minute."

Okay, I definitely wasn't speaking out loud.

"Great, an evening watching the demon equivalent to UFC, I'm sure it'll be chock full of intelligent discussion and polite discourse."

"I'm sorry," said Robin, "did I say the demons were fighting?"

"No," I said, "But when you said a demon fighting arena, I took that to mean a demon fighting arena. I realize that's an easy mistake to make."

"Cock fighting."

"No thanks, I prefer tacos."

His face twisted into a grimace, but he schooled it so fast I thought I imagined the disgust. "I mean it's a cock fighting ring." His switch flipped, he was practically frothing smugness. "They get together and bet on roosters."

"You mean you're sending me out to investigate a chicken fighting club run by demons?"

"When I said, I wanted you to look into a demon run fighting ring; I meant that I wanted you to look into a demon run fighting ring. I realize that's an easy mistake to make."

Oh he was just a treat.

I was balling my fists tight, to stop myself from saying something I'd regret later. That wasn't difficult when you have a mouth as wide as mine.

"I'll get my equipment together." I said through clenched teeth, grabbing the folder a bit rougher than necessary.

"Remember," Robin said, as if he hadn't made it exceedingly clear, "you're just observing. Leave the heavy lifting to the girls." Then he laughed as if this ironic statement based on the dissonance between strength and appearance of slayers was inventive and new.

"No problem." I said, casting one last longing gaze at that mahogany desk before leaving. I would have slammed the door, but I respected the oak too much to risk damaging it.

I was good and steamed by that point, and I had plenty of time to kill before heading out, so I returned to my room and changed.

A couple rounds with a heavy bag was a cliché but effective way to calm down.

Cleveland house was built in the remains of an old dormitory. When the Council took over I renovated it top to bottom to make it slayer worthy. Say what you will about teenage girls, but you better hope you have enough washrooms and a big enough boiler to keep everyone in hot showers all day long.

My room was upstairs close to the fire escape, with a window facing the street. The majority of my woodworking tools I kept in a work shed out back, which left my other crap to fill the room. It was mostly geek stuff, save for the box I kept hidden in my closet. That was special.

I swapped my jeans and t-shirt for sweat pants and a Nike top that had list of 'technological innovations' the length of my arm.

That done, I headed for the stairs.

The fitness center was built into what use to be the ground floor recreation room and weight room. We tore out the old carpet and wood flooring and replaced it with concrete and wall to wall rubber mats. We segmented it into three divisions: weights, martial arts, and free space.

The weights were straight forward enough. The only difference from a commercial gym was the lack of any machines. This was because machines tend towards isolation training, which targets only major muscle groups; thereby failing to account for stabilization muscles and other support muscles.

And while my own preference lay with bodyweight training, which reliably builds functional muscle, a Slayer's strength to weight ratio made this method insufficient for building strength.

Instead we stocked this area with barbells, kettle bells, medicine balls, dumbbells, and various other free weights of monstrous mass. Of course we had the standard pull up bar stations, but those had to be supplemented with weighted belts, or weights that the slayers could hold between their legs.

Unlike many gym-goers, we weren't aiming for sarcoplasmic hypertrophy (volume), instead, sacromere hypertrophy (density), flexibility, and balance. The hardest part had been breaking the notion that lifting weights would make the slayers look big and 'muscley'. Women just don't produce enough testosterone naturally to bulk up like a body builder. That comes from banned substances.

The martial arts area was a fully stocked armory of training weapons; bo staffs, swords both eastern and European, and a variety of more exotic implements lined the walls.

Speed bags, heavy bags, or my preferred wooden man dummies (mak yan jung), in both Wing Chun and Choy Lay Fat style, were spread out evenly with plenty of space between. In the center was a sparring area.

Free space was straight forward enough, just an empty area the slayers could stretch in. Or anything else that caught their fancy, like Jazzercizing or something. That was a phase I wouldn't miss.

In the end, the martial arts section was mostly a disappointment. Too many slayers relied on their innate knowledge of martial arts to fight, and while this made them forces to be reckoned with, it was a waste of potential. Using moves with no knowledge of why or for what led to fundamental gaps from knowledge to application. While each slayer could tailor their knowledge to suit their unique styles, they ended up fighting in the same inefficient way, with too many flips and flashy moves to truly be efficient.

The Wing Chun dummy was empty, of course, so I warmed up by running through a few forms.

A wooden man dummy is essentially a wood approximation for the lines of attack your opponent can make. It has four appendages, two arms angled outward, one arm below them angles straight out, and a bent leg further below that. They're typically associated with southern Kung Fu styles, but I've found that most martial arts can be applied to them, and they're a great way to take a technique from theory to practice.

Before actually using it on someone, of course.

The rhythmic sound of flesh on wood would have echoed if the floors weren't rubber, but the soft smacks were therapeutic enough. Some people play ambient ocean sounds or slowed down Justin Bieber to find their calm, this was way better.

I was fully engrossed now, like I was in a trance, flowing from move to move without thought, without pause. My forearms were stinging, but that only made me hit the dummy harder. Wing Chun, Shotokan karate, Kali, a variety of forms and different applications; blended into a cohesive whole.

I was about ready to move on to some bag work when I felt the footsteps of someone from behind.

I spun around before they could speak, "What's up." I was a little disappointed they weren't surprised.

"I've never seen anyone use those before; I always wondered how they worked. It looks very impressive." Farheen said. She was dressed in sweats too, with the addition of a sports hijab, but unlike me she wasn't sweating out a puddle. She was a seventeen year old from Seattle, quiet, because she was keenly aware of the power words held.

I wiped the sweat from my brow, "They're not hard to use, would you want me to teach you?"

She nodded, "I wanted to talk with you first."

"Okay, shoot."

"What do you think of hijab?"

It took me a second to understand what she meant. Hijab traditionally, refers to the belief of modest dress practiced by Muslims. These days it just refers to a head scarf.

"You mean like a burka? Are people giving you trouble about that? I realize Cleveland's not the most progressive city, but there's a pretty strong Muslim community." I didn't really keep up with the slayers when they went into the city, they were smart and knew not to get caught up in anything dangerous.

"I mean a chador, and it's not the people in the city that are giving me trouble."

Oh.

So much for team solidarity. I wasn't exactly a shining beacon on tolerance, after all, I was pretty open about my rabid hate for vampires, but I wanted to believe these girls would be better than that. Buffy's experience of becoming an outcast once she received her powers wasn't universal, but surely these girls could respect opposing religious beliefs.

"I'll talk to them." I knew instantly that was the wrong thing to say. Had tons of high school dramas, not that I'd admit to watching any, shown me how not to deal with bullying. Stepping in like an asshole would only make it worse for her.

Her face showed what she thought of that idea, "No, that would only make it worse." She looked away for a moment, perhaps recalling their words. "They said I can't patrol in a chador, that I'll get them killed." I was pretty sure she was paraphrasing in an exceptionally polite way.

A chador is similar to a burqa, and they're often confused as each other, the difference lies in the amount of face covered. Burqa use a veil to cover the entire face, while a chador leaves the face exposed.

With their voluminous amounts of clothe, neither were really ideal fighting garments.

Still, it wasn't like a miniskirt and high heels was much better, and Buffy wore those throughout her entire high school career.

I was panicking big time. As cultural sensitivity goes I'm pretty ignorant, I use crosses to deter vampires, and that's about it. Hell, I use to think Muhammad was a boxer. Turns out that was Cassius Clay.

"Err… is wearing a chador important to you? I mean, I believe some women interpret the need for hijab in the context to their surroundings, regular clothes and a head scarf might suffice."

It seemed that if white women had their way, the burqa and all its cousins would be outlawed for their use as tools to oppress women. But most Muslim women, who have a choice, seem to think the hijab was like the greatest thing ever. It was described to me once as sort of like bringing the security of your house along with you. I can't begrudge anyone that.

"InshAllah," She said, "But I feel more comfortable in a full covering. It gives me confidence."

It was interesting how luck works in modern America. Ask any normal citizen if they believe in magic and they'd probably say no. But most still adhere to rituals that they believe bring them good luck. Whether it's normal superstitions like stepping on cracks, or growing a beard for the playoff, there seems to be some underlying belief that by performing some action, something good would happen in exchange.

But making a house combat worthy? There's only one way to find out if it was possible.

"Let's spar."

"Pardon?" now she looked shocked, I should have been offended.

"I want to see you fight."

Inevitably she protested, "But you're just-"

"A regular human, don't worry about it." I could finish that sentence without even trying.

She paused a moment. "Okay."

She led me to the sparring area, before taking position an arm's length away. She dropped into a stance.

It was a typical sort of boxing stance. I reciprocated by moving into a Jeet Kune Do on stance.

Then she moved, faster than I could possibly see.

It didn't matter, before she even realized it, I had moved to parry. Not block, because that would have torn my arm out of its socket. An instant of surprise appeared on her face, a small grin formed.

She was going easy on me. But now that she knew I could handle it she wasn't going to hold back.

Her punches were good. She avoided the problem many slayers had with telegraphing, that is, pulling the hand back before punching. It didn't add much power and told the whole world you were going to attack.

Farheen seemed to be well adept with boxing, throwing quick combinations that had me squirming and twisting to dodge. I wouldn't be able to take a hit; even one of her jabs would have been fight ending.

I snapped a kick at her thigh as I darted back. It connected enough to falter her, giving me precious seconds to catch my breath. I was sweating hard and my sweatpants felt like they were made of lead.

It wasn't a competition, but I didn't want to lose. Farheen was of the same mindset. She charged back in. I wouldn't be able to take much more of this, I needed to end the fight now.

Her jab passed by, followed by her right cross. I checked it with my left hand, and used my right to guide it past me.

That left her arm between us, with no way for her to rotate to attack.

Twisting her arm into an elbow lock was preschool.

I gave her a moment to puzzle out how to escape, before I added a bit of pressure to make her tap out.

Instead she dropped fast, and then twisted through the opening between us, pulling her arm free, and twisting my arm behind my back.

She pushed my arm straight while simultaneously twisting my wrist skyward. A wrist lock.

She held it with enough pressure to hurt.

"Give." She said, making sure to assert that it wasn't a question.

I kicked her shin.

Her flinch was enough for me to reverse my grip and throw my leg around her.

Ordinarily a slayer would be able to take my weight no problem, but she was already unbalanced so she couldn't help but topple.

We rolled, landing flat on our backs, her arm between my legs. I pulled it up to my chest, while keeping my hips down. I'd performed what is known as a flying arm bar. Flying because you have to jump to perform it, and arm bar, because it puts your opponent in an arm bar. Duh.

When properly executed there aren't many ways to escape. She tapped.

I let myself breathe again. Without disabling moves or a nasty bag of tricks, fighting a slayer was difficult. More than that, Farheen was good. Really, really good. Pure luck was all that allowed me to achieve the arm bar, and in a real fight she probably could have torn my leg off from that position.

Her reflexes were excellent, and while she still suffered from using that bastardized slayer fighting style, she'd adapted it unconsciously to suit her own sensibilities.

I wasn't sure if she'd noticed, but she'd made many adjustments to suit fighting while wearing concealing clothing.

I gave myself a moment to catch my breath.

"You instinctively shuffle your feet. Wearing something like high heels, that's a terrible idea, but with sneakers under a chador it completely eliminates any ability to predict what your footwork is doing. Your hands are also constantly shifting. I don't know if you realized, but in the dark they'll blend in with the body portion of your chador, making your punches even more unpredictable.

You can't grapple though. Long hair is enough of a problem in a close quarters fight; your chador will only make you vulnerable to grabs."

She didn't say anything.

"Are you okay?"

She sighed, "Just disappointed I guess, I thought I'd be able to beat you."

I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face, "If you weren't worried about injuring me, how would you escape my armbar?"

"I'd bite your leg," she said without any hesitation.

I nodded, "The reason you don't kick is because you're worried someone would be able to grab your leg, right?"

"Yes," She said, "I usually use a weapon to extend my reach."

That was good, "And if you're disarmed?"

She shrugged, "Then I improvise or fight hand to hand."

I was honestly impressed. She was the kind of pragmatic you wanted in a warrior.

"What do you think about fair fight?"

"It's not fair unless I have an advantage."

I was liking her more and more.

"I think you'll be fine. You'll kill more vamps than the rest of the other slayers combined."

She nodded, "Thank you."

'Now," I said, "why don't I show you how a wooden dummy works."

She smiled, I'd lie and say it was like the sun rising or being born a new. It wasn't.

But it was a very nice smile.

- BREAK -

After finishing up with Farheen I grabbed a bite to eat in the kitchen, before showering so I didn't stink up the place. I changed into jeans, hoodie, baseball cap, and a beaten up brown bomber jacket. Tonight I wanted to look like some vampire asshole.

As opposed to some human asshole.

I checked myself over once again. A variety of knives tucked away around my body, and a handgun concealed in a hidden inner pocket I'd sewn into the lining of the jacket. That was pretty standard kit. I brought my driver's license, but I'd leave that in the car. If I got caught I didn't want to be carrying anything that could identify me or lead back to the house.

It wasn't the most comfortable outfit for lounging, but I wanted to give them the appearance of being worn and I needed to get use to moving around in them.

I killed time on my laptop until it was close to eight. That'd give me plenty of time to case the place before going in.

As I was heading for the staircase, the unfiltered voices of a few of the slayers became audible.

"It's like she wants to be a raghead." That must have been Linda, a Chinese-Canadian girl from Alberta.

"They're all jackers, you know. We're doing her a favor." Amanda, a native Ohioan.

I wanted to turn around and do something. Anything. But Farheen was right; I'd only make it worse. This was her fight, and I had no right to step in. Fulfilling my duty as the Kevin Costner in this charade would only end in Water World.

…

I meant train wreck.

I left the house and grabbed a Twinkie from my work shed out back. I had a secret stash saved for special occasions. I figured this warranted it.

I hopped in one of the old sedans we kept around for short trips. We also had a van, but that was for patrol since we could fit more people in the back.

The sedan was automatic and under powered, but our budget didn't really allow for anything else; mostly because a majority of it went towards Robin's Lexus.

He drove that car everywhere, but apparently it gave him a pretty good sense of the city. It really did only take twenty minutes to get to the gambling den. Or maybe he googled it.

I said they were stupid for setting up shop so close to us, but they weren't so dumb in choosing to hide downtown.

If there's one thing you learn about Cleveland, it's that the entire city's a shit hole.

It's no Detroit, but anywhere with an economy that centers entirely on LeBron James is in some serious trouble.

For example, America's average of violent crimes per one thousand people is around four. Ohio is in comparison is a relatively safe state with an average of 3. Cleveland tips the scale at around 14. That's not an optimistic number.

With over 70,000 abandoned residences and a median household income half that of the national average, it should come as no surprise that Cleveland's a rough place.

Suddenly a Hellmouth begins to make sense.

In any case, general perception seems to be that downtown Cleveland is a cesspool of crime and violence.

They're wrong... Sort of.

In recent years, a lot has been done to clean up the downtown core, and crime statistics indicate a growing trend outside of Cleveland's downtown. But these statistics only track reported human crimes.

Moving an illegal betting ring into the downtown core is a pretty smart move. Being demon run, it's a hell of a lot less likely for police to give a shit. Bystander syndrome plays in full effect here. You see, the police have done a good job moving out human trouble makers, which leaves a gap for enterprising demons to fill. Their crimes don't get reported, and so the disparity in statistics appears.

Cesspool of human crime? No. But no matter who went before you, if you stick your foot down a latrine it's never coming out clean.

I was getting close to the site, so I parked the car on a main street. I wanted it to be as visible as possible. After all, if I ended up needing to leave in a hurry I didn't want to return to find the car gta'd.

It looked like you needed a parking pass for overnight stays. I checked the car in front, an old Toyota, but both doors were locked. It was the newer BMW behind me that was unlocked. Their parking pass went on top of the sedan's dashboard.

With the hoodie and bomber jacket on it wasn't cold out, but I wasn't interested in hanging around. I used a folded up map Robin had provided to navigate toward my target.

It was a couple blocks from the nearest main street. I passed only a few people on the way there: couples headed home, or people pre-DUI stumbling to their cars.

The doorway was innocuous enough, with a vampire pretending to be a sheltered hobo. I didn't need the map for confirmation; he stood out like a beacon. I sat down at a bus stop parallel to him, just outside his field of view. I pretended to look tired and bored.

Frustrated people waiting for non-existent buses were a common occurrence in Cleveland. No one would have paid me a single bit of attention.

It seemed that he was just there to keep an eye out for cops. There wasn't a need to show ID or anything like that, and most people walked past him without a single glance.

After a while of that, I stood up from the bench faking annoyance, as if I was going to walk home. I turned the corner out of his sight and headed for the back alley.

I didn't intend for things to go wrong, but it never hurt to check for back exits.

There were a couple of plain panel vans in the back, with humanoid looking demons shifting things from the back into the building. They weren't all speaking English and the ones that were, mostly complained about the shitty hours and lousy pay.

Some things are universal.

It wasn't dark yet, so I had to stick to physical cover. I ducked behind an industrial garbage bin. I was hoping the smell would deter anyone with a sensitive nose from detecting me.

The one in the hat was the boss. I couldn't understand what he was saying, but the sound of someone giving you shit for working too slow is shared among all languages.

Hatboss was good and pissed too; he was slapping one of the movers hard. No one dared to move. He threw in a couple more shots, before taking a deep breath. When he looked up everyone hurried to look like they'd been working. One guy struggled with a rooster cage.

I pulled my phone out and opened the camera app. It was dark and I was far away, but I managed to steady myself on the trash bin and get a grainy shot of Hatboss's face. I captured his underling's mugs too just in case.

That was enough for me. I left Hatboss to chew out the rest of his gang.

Once I cleared the alley I pulled my baseball cap down tighter. It was a Cavaliers cap, one of thousands in the city, I didn't know if they had cameras, but I wasn't going to take any chances. The false hobo by the door looked up as I approached.

Fake or not he smelt like the real deal. I gave him my best smile and passed him a twenty.

No one was expected to tip him, so twenty dollars was enough for him to return the grin, he even held the door open. Hopefully he'd put it towards a new aftershave.

If you were expecting a dark, seedy gambling den; you would have been sorely disappointed, or perhaps pleasantly surprised. It was no Four Seasons, but the walls and stairs were clean, and somebody had clearly been reading some interior design magazines. It smelt like someone had bought out a Wal-Mart's candle department, then burned them all in one go.

There were even no smoking signs plastered on the walls, I guess they weren't interested in starting a fire the core of downtown.

Or they were out of candles.

The stairs opened up to an auditorium, with two bars on both sides and bleacher style seats that circled the fighting arena. There were six aisles that ran the length of the bleachers; they terminated at the wall to the ring. The actual fighting pit was lowered enough that there ¾ size doors at opposite ends, presumably they'd bring the fighters out from there.

I sidled up to the closest bar and ordered a beer. By this point the arena was half full, with demons of all shapes and sizes. Most were milling about, a drink in hand.

I didn't really want nor need the drink, but it helped me blend and gave me a weapon just in case. I started scanning the crowd.

"This is an outrage!" A voice said. It sounded calm, but it was loud and projected so far, it might have well of been a rabid scream. A hulking figure towered above one of the floor mangers. I couldn't tell what kind of demon he was, but his skin had the texture of rock and he was dressed in what looked to be a finely tailored suit. "I paid good money for this seat, you can't just tell me to move."

"I'm sorry sir" said the manager, who managed to look both apologetic and exasperated at the same time, "If you sit there, you'll block the view of other customers." He had a shifty weasel look to him, the kind you see in every underpaid criminal with a managerial position. Almost improbably he spoke with a Jersey accent.

I was getting a feel for the business now; standing room was free, but if you wanted a seat you'd have to pay. The money from the seats was inconsequential compared to the betting, but business is business.

"You can't do that."

"Look sir, I'll reimburse you the cost of your ticket, and you can have a seat on one of the upper rows. I'm sorry, but we can't have you blocking the view of other customers." Weasel was rubbing his hands together, "Drinks are on me, whah dah yah say?"

Mountain looked like he wanted to put up more of a fight, but once he noticed the security team edging closer he deflated.

"Fine." He said, "You may have your seat back."

He turned away and hulked up the stairs towards me. Behind him the manager unlocked his legs, buckling to the ground almost instantly. I could hardly blame him.

Up close the rock like skin looked less B-movie, more a collective of small sharp knives. Not to mention the way his muscles bulged through his suit, he could have lifted as semi truck over his head and I wouldn't have batted an eyelash. I'd probably need new pants though.

He looked at my drink, "Sorry about that, I didn't mean to make a scene. What are you drinking?"

His voice was like glass through a vacuum cleaner, but at least he wasn't shouting now. "Err, it's a pilsner."

He turned to the bartender, "One pilsner." It was passed over immediately, which was at least 300x faster than I'd gotten mine. "I didn't know vampires drank beer."

Oh shit oh shit.

"The taste makes me nostalgic."

He nodded, "You can call me Amanda."

I smiled back at her, "Alex." Nothing quite like feeling like an idiot.

So that was unexpected, but if she was friendly, who was I to deny a source of information? Honestly, I felt like a bit of a dick head, but I had a hard enough time telling the gender of some humans. I could forgive myself for this one.

"So, come here often?"

A single rocky brow rose, "Are you hitting on me?"

"Err… Yes?" There wasn't an Oscar coming my way anytime soon.

She burst out laughing "I can see you're not interested, no need to try and flatter me."

"Sorry, I'm new to this scene. I was hoping you could fill me in."

She nodded, "Fair enough. Its standard betting really, the bookies office posts the odds two weeks ahead of time, but I assume if you don't know that, you didn't make a bet."

"Yep, I'm just here for the booze and entertainment." It wasn't much of a joke, and she hardly registered I'd said it.

"There's three rounds, with the fights done like a gauntlet. If a rooster wins, it continues to the next round, last rooster standing's the champion."

"So who's running this shindig? In case I want to make friends." I was hoping that didn't sound too suspicious.

"See those two?" She said indicating down to Hatboss, who was talking to a barely clothed Amazonian beauty, she was at least a good foot taller than he was. "That's Edmund Bargas and Andrea Kent; they organize the show and bring the fighters together."

With more light than the back alley, I could get a better look at Bargas. He was average height, and average build. But I was pretty sure he was a vampire, and size really didn't mean much when it came to them. He must've liked his movies; he looked straight out of The Matrix, with a long black leather coat that would have cost more than the sedan I'd driven here with. Kent had similarly expensive tastes, but while Bargas looked comical, she looked like a stunning combination of violence and refinement.

I couldn't tell you what she was wearing, but spend enough time around fashionable girls and stay bored enough to read the magazines they leave lying around, and you get some vague notion of how the mysteries of women's clothing works. I hadn't decoded the cipher yet, but I could at least tell the dress she was wearing probably had some famous designers name printed on a label, and was made of something like the silk of rare African spiders.

I pulled my phone out, pretending someone had texted me. I opened the camera app, and as I shoved it back in my pocket I tapped it a couple times to get a picture of Bargas and Kent. She had an arm around his shoulder, it looked like a two by four compared to his neck.

"Are these usually fights only?"

"Usually it," Amanda said, "But apparently there's going to be a special auction tonight; must be something big. Kent would have brought it in, she's the business woman."

I filed that information away. "You sound like you have personal experience with them."

"We're members of the same country club."

Huh. That was new.

"What's it take to join?"

"$50,000-"

"Wow."

"-To join the waiting list for the waiting list."

"Know any female members looking for a one eyed boyfriend. I can tell you we let our eyes wander half as much as a regular guy."

She snorted.

The lights in arena switched on, diverting attention to the fight floor. An announcer dressed in lurid red held a mic loosely in his hands, "Welcome ladies and gentlemen! We've got a special night for you tonight. First off, let's welcome our first round of fighters!" His mustache quivered as he spoke. He stroked it like it was waxed.

"I know you've been waiting for this. Remember, the winner of each fight moves onto the next round. No breaks! The last rooster standing will be our champion."

Doors on opposing sides of the arena opened, with a large demon carrying one rooster cage each.

"Let's get started!"

"In this corner," The announcer said, despite the arena being circular, "The fierce cockerel from Columbia, Chocobo Chuck!"

The black rooster was met with a wave of polite applause.

Where his previous attitude was enthusiastic, he got downright ecstatic. A broad expanse of white appeared beneath the fur patch on his upper lip. "And in this corner, the invincible, the unstoppable, the undefeated," he took a breath "POYO!"

The red rooster raised his head as if he understood the announcer. He wore a black and blue luchador mask, a crown rested a top his cage.

"POYO! POYO! POYO!" The audience chanted back. They were screaming now, waving flags; they even had those stupid #1 gloves. It could have been a basketball game, if the people weren't cheering for cocks to tear into each other.

Maybe it was a basketball game.

Amanda leaned closer so she wouldn't have to shout, "They're cheering for Poyo, he's won fifteen fights now."

"So how does anyone make any money?" If one bird won all the time, it wasn't much of a bet.

"A lot of the people cheering are hoping he'll finally fall, no rooster has ever been on a winning streak this long."

"What do you think?"

With not a hint of doubt she said, "Poyo is unbeatable."

Down in the ring the announcer had to shout to be heard over the crowd, "ARE YOU READY?!"

"POYO! POYO! POYO!" The crowd answered.

That was enough for him, because then shoved his fist in the air and screamed, "FIGHT!"

He ran and vaulted the barrier. I guess he didn't want to be in the ring.

The cage doors opened, and if it was possible the crowd went even crazier.

And I knew then why Amanda was so confident.

Poyo pounced, and it was the most astounding thing I'd ever seen. Chocobo Chuck was fighting outside his weight class, he was up creek without a paddle, he was getting his ass kicked.

Where he tried to peck and scream, Poyo bobbed and weaved. And once Chocobo Chuck left an opening, Poyo attacked. A jumping side kick went through Chocobo Chuck's guard and catapulted him across the arena into the wall. I saw why the arena was painted red.

To conceal the blood.

And shame.

Poyo didn't let up; he hauled Chocobo Chuck to his feet, and put him in a choke hold. How was that even possible, he was a rooster for chrissakes.

And as soon as it had begun, it was over. Chocobo Chuck, once proud and tall, had been reduced to a quivering sack of feathers. Poyo, with the majesty of a king, looked like could go ten more rounds.

Unbelievable.

The next two rounds were much the same. None of the other roosters could possible hope to match Poyo, who tore through them like a shotgun with a barrel of fish.

I couldn't hear myself think over the roars of the crowd, many were celebrating loudly, while others cried with unrestrained remorse.

I understood some people would have to bet on the underdog, but how could anyone even think another living creature could ever hope to match Poyo. I'd seen slayers who fought worse.

"Let's give it up for Poyo, ladies and gentlemen." The announcer had kept his commentary from the side of the ring. "Remember, our office where you placed your bets will now be open for you to collect your winnings." He rubbed his hands together, "Unless of course you lost money."

Dutifully Poyo returned to his cage. It was placed on a pedestal, on the far side of the ring, for all to see. The crown gleamed in the light, looking like a declaration of victory.

The announcer returned to the center of the ring, he held his hands up for silence, when he got it be spoke, "Now, for our special event! Ladies and Gentlemen, I hope you're prepared for this!"

A hushed whisper rushed through the crowd, speculation and curious interest.

If this was an auction, I needed to know what they were selling. It didn't seem likely Poyo would be on offer, he was a gold mine of potential, no way would anyone let go of that.

My question was answered in the worst way possible.

"From our very own state of Ohio, this is your opportunity to purchase, your own SLAYER!"

I almost swallowed my beer bottle.

His scream was punctuated by another demon bringing out a young girl. She must have been between 16 and 20, with long brown hair and olive skin. She couldn't walk straight; the demon had to drag her as she stumbled forward. Her hands were bound, but they left her legs free.

A collective gasp filled the room, some demons started to panic.

"Worry not; she's been dosed to keep her completely docile." The announcer was eating it up; he must have been so pleased. "Now, what will you offer for this once in a lifetime opportunity to own your own slayer?"

I needed to try something

"How do we know she's really a slayer?" I kept a hand pressed over my mouth to try and distort my voice. Amanda gave a curious look, but I couldn't worry about that now. "You can't trust him."

"Well why not?" Someone asked.

"Because he has a mustache?"

"He _does_ have a mustache!"

"Yeah, fuck that guy."

The announcer started flapping, looking back and forth as spectators started hurling accusations around. This was exactly what I needed, enough doubt to call off the sale, or some other way to give me another angle of attack.

I knew they'd leave out the back if it went sour. I could intercept them in the alley.

That plan crumbled.

"She's a slayer because I give you my word!" Bargas said, standing at the foot of the ring, "My word is as good as a guarantee! That man does not have a mustache."

And that was it, the entire room was silenced.

The announcer unpeeled his stick on mustache.

Kent smiled, "Why don't we start the bidding at $10,000." She eyed the announcer.

He got the message, "Do we have $10,000? Anyone?"

And then the crowd took off for an entirely different reason.

"That poor girl," Amanda sighed draining the rest of her beer.

I was panicking now. How could this happen, how could the council let this happen? And more importantly, was this happening with other girls?

I couldn't think about that now, I had to focus. How could I save this girl? My hands were clenching, and unclenching as my head spun. My brain was running calculations faster than it ever had before.

Amanda must have seen what I was thinking. "Don't, she's a slayer, you'll only get yourself killed."

"She's just a girl," I said, "I have to do something."

"You're awfully compassionate for a vampire. Slayers are your natural enemy."

"No one deserves what they're doing to her."

I couldn't stop myself now. It was stupid. I should've waited for a buyer, tail them and take her then. Not charge down into the middle of a crowd of demons pumped up on adrenaline, gallons of booze, and whatever illegal substances they'd smuggled in. The rational side of my brain was telling me to sit the hell down and shut up and stay quiet. She'd be safe till the buyer got her to a new location.

I couldn't convince myself that was the truth.

I was already moving. I had to break through the crowd that'd formed a standing barrier, but once I was free it was a free sprint through the seated area.

I ignored any attempts to stop me, weaving between people like an organic obstacle course.

I vaulted over the barrier into the ring; cries of surprise followed close behind me.

"What the hell are you doing!?" cried the announcer.

I drew my gun, a Colt 1911 in condition one. That meant there was a round in the chamber and the gun was cocked, only the safety prevented it from firing.

I flicked the safety off.

"I'm taking the girl."

The announcer growled, "No one takes from Mr. Bargas without paying."

"I hope you accept lead, I'm all out of cash." Then I pulled the trigger. I wanted to pat myself on the back.

A .45 caliber bullet exited the muzzle of the colt at 370m/s, impacting his forehead with over 800J of force.

It bounced off his skull like I hadn't even pulled the trigger. I might as well have thrown a pebble.

"You're in for a deep dicking now boy." He scoffed. That was probably the most ominous threat I'd ever received in my life.

He punched me in the chest. It felt like all my ribs breaking at once.

The force of the blow took me airborne, smashing Poyo's cage open on my way to the ground.

The crowd was silent.

The announcer approached, stretching out his back, I noticed then how broad he looked. With his hand no longer wrapped around the mic I could see how talon like they appeared. Each of his nails as sharpened off to a deadly point.

It really was a stupid plan.

He picked up my gun from where it had fallen and approached slowly. It was dramatic bullshit; he should have just shot me from where he stood, but god if it wasn't terrifying. Each step was war drums in my ear.

I couldn't pull myself up. My head was a mess, a foggy cloud of oh shit that hurts and fucking hell I'm an idiot. I was pushing against the ground, but hell if it wasn't pulling back at me.

The announcer unnecessarily racked the Colt's slide, an unspent round flew out the side. "Good by Mister Pirate." Then he smiled like it was funny.

Christ, I couldn't die with that being the last thing I heard. I had to get up.

He raised the gun and his neck tore open, blood exiting. His body collapsed from under him.

The invincible, unstoppable, undefeated rooster touched down lightly, he flicked his claw free of blood like a samurai's katana.

"POYO!" The announcer choked blood where breath should be. He expired, his dreams of life as a wrestling commentator dying with him.

I think I should explain: Poyo was born in the cold winter of Russia, deep in the heart of Chernobyl. With the plant's explosion, an untold number of demons were irradiated; even now the descendants of those demons possess traits seen nowhere else in the world. When Poyo's mother gave birth to him, his egg rolled out of the nest and into the irradiated remains of a Sargerath demon. The blood of Sargerath demons is known to imbue supernatural abilities to those who consume it, irradiated as it was, the effects it had on the still incubating Poyo were unknown. After being born, Poyo left Russia for the mountainous regions of China, where he studied ancient martial arts from a grandmaster known only as Pai Mei. After a month of training Poyo had surpassed the abilities of his master, and had uncovered the secret deadly arts of Tiger Palm Kung Fu. He then began his travels across the globe, hunting for action and adventure.

Actually, I'm lying. None of that is true.

Poyo is just really _really_ badass.

Poyo looked at me, then looked at the slayer, then looked back at me. He nodded.

I knew what he was saying. Fuck this was insane; I was going to fight my way out with the help of a rooster.

I pried my Colt from the finger of the past expired announcer. Fuck him; he didn't need it any more.

The crowd was reacting now. Bargas and Kent were on their feet. Bargas was turning purple and Kent was looking incredible sexy.

I meant angry.

The demon that brought the girl in was getting anxious, looking between me and Poyo like one of us was going to tear his head off.

I put him out of my misery.

I didn't know what he was, but the bullet tore through his head like he was human. The slayer collapsed to the ground without his support. I grabbed her before her head hit the ground. It wasn't concrete, but I didn't want to risk her getting a concussion when she was drugged to the gills.

Poyo was busy keeping another demon at bay, pummeling its guard with a variety of kicks and slashes.

"I'm going to get you out of here. We're getting to safety." I didn't know if the girl could hear me, but I didn't want her struggling. The vampire may have been able to control her, but even if she was drugged she might have been able to overpower me.

"POYO!, we need to get out of here!"

He squawked in reply, then spun kick a shirtless demon into two others. They went down like bowling pins.

We needed an out, I ran to one of the ring entrances. I threw my weight and the slayers into it but nothing gave. I shot another vampire on the way to the other one. No joy. They must have been bolted on the inside.

"No good," I shouted to Poyo, "We'll have to go out the main entrance."

But Bargas wasn't having any of that, "Kill them, but don't harm the slayer!"

More demons were running down the aisles, there was no way we could fight our way past them. I shot the first one climbing into the ring. It made him stumble, but it didn't kill him.

We were desperate and they knew it. Poyo would be swarmed soon and I couldn't fight while holding onto the slayer. I couldn't fire blindly either. I didn't want to hit any innocents, even if they were demons.

Once we were surrounded it would be game over.

"Hey!" a familiar voice screamed, "You spilled my drink!"

That was all the warning I got, before Amanda grabbed a passing vampire and threw him down the aisle.

Every single demon in that aisle was bowled over; it was like the parting of the red sea.

There was our opening.

"Yah lousy basterd-" She slurred, "Bartender, gimme another!" She deserved every single golden statue and globe in existence.

"Poyo." I shouted, just in case he hadn't seen it, "There's an opening, we need to go now!"

He saluted and I broke for it.

The slayer must have had some instinctive knowledge of what was happening. She was stumbling forward guided by my left arm. My right was busy with the Colt.

I had to throw her over the barrier. My shoulder screamed from when I had battered it against the doors. I threw Poyo too.

Kent must have been climbing into the ring to tear our heads off. She'd been caught under a pile of bodies. I stumbled over her as I crawled over the wall, grabbing the slayer who was already halfway up the staircase.

"STOP THEM!" Howled Bargas, but I was charging up the stairs, Poyo close behind.

We stumbled through a groaning mass of writhing bodies. I waved the Colt at anyone who looked ready to attack. We'd been lucky; the crowd had been too stunned to make a break for the exit. It would have been too crowded to if they'd panicked and ran for it.

I nodded once in appreciation to Amanda. She saluted me with a newly opened beer. I only hoped no one would blame her for our escape.

We were almost free, the door to the street just a few steps away.

It swung open; the vampire doorman peered around, "Hey, man, what's going on?"

I shot him in the knee.

We hit fresh air.

"I've got a car close by, come on!"

Poyo nodded. The slayer moaned. The vampire doorman cried.

We ran.

- BREAK -

When I said getting chewed out sounds the same in every language I meant it.

But this was in English, and I understood every word.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Robin was pacing in front of me. The slayer was on the living room sofa, a blanket tossed over her. Poyo guarded her patiently.

"I couldn't let anyone buy her." I said, "Maybe I wouldn't have been able to save her. I wasn't willing to take that risk."

"Well now Bargas and Kent could be anywhere. We'll never catch them."

"She was more important." The young slayer groaned in wakefulness. "Bargas and Kent will turn up again. We may have never gotten another chance to save her."

"You don't know that." Robin said, "What if she's not even a slayer?"

I exploded, "What the fuck does that matter? She's an innocent."

He sucked in a breath, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

He stepped around me, looked down at the sleeping face. A flicker of compassion crossed his face, "You did the right thing. We couldn't let her fall into anyone else's hands."

I didn't really like the way he phrased that.

Faith walked in from the kitchen carrying a steaming mug of coffee. I accepted it wordlessly.

"How's she doing?"

"She's stable; we believe they injected her with muscle relaxants, similar to what the slayers got for the cruciamentum."

Faith winced, she hadn't gone through the ritual, but Buffy had told her what happened. "Losing her strength must have been frightening."

I remembered how she'd forced herself up the stairs. "She's strong." It was a meaningless comment, but I felt like I had to say something.

The girl groaned again. Her eyes opened so slowly she might have been taking in the world one particle at a time.

Faith rushed over immediately, speaking in a voice so delicate I could hardly believe it was her, "Don't worry, you're safe here." She was on her knees, making sure to keep her head to around the same level as the girl's.

"Annabelle," the girl whispered, "Annabelle."

"Is that your name?" Robin asked.

The extra voice must have confused her. She started twisting to look for him.

Faith half turned, held an open palm towards us. She didn't look happy.

We got the message: shut up.

She turned back, "Is your name Annabelle?"

"My sister. They still have her."

"Who still has her?"

"Those men," She said, "I have to rescue her. I promised I'd keep her safe."

Faith put a hand on her, gently keeping her from sitting up. "You need to rest. Get some sleep. we'll talk in the morning."

The girl pushed the hand off, "I have to go."

Somehow she managed to get to her feet, stumbling forward. Her breathing was harsh, her motions were sharp, but her face was a mask of steely determination.

She got halfway across the room before falling to her knees.

Faith slowly touched her shoulder, careful to keep herself in the other girls line of site. The girl's shirt was drenched in sweat from the exertion of standing. She didn't react.

"She's asleep." Faith said.

The girl remained upright.

How determined was this girl?

Faith turned to us, "Let her get some rest. I'll stay here for the night."

Poyo gave me a nod. I guess I could count on him too.

Robin patted me on the back, "I need to talk to you. Come to my office."

We walked to his office in silence. I was nursing a headache, he was focusing on his swagger. Robin held the door open for me and closed it the second I walked in, circling around so he could sit on the edge of his desk. I was so tired I could barely smell the wildflowers.

Before I could say anything he spoke.

"I know what you're thinking. We can't go after the sister."

I should have known. I was beginning to wonder if my head ache was telling me I should reach over and strangle him.

It was just wishful thinking.

"If they've got other girls, we need to stop them."

"Whoever else they might have, they're not slayers. They would have brought them to the arena." He brushed an imaginary piece of lint of his shoulder, "We've got bigger concerns."

"Demons are trafficking humans and you think we've got bigger concerns? What, has a vampire taken over the White House with the aid of alien robots? We need to get her sister back"

"The trail's dead Xander, Bargas and Kent are long gone. We'll never find them."

I was trying not to shout, "I've got photos. I can give them to Andrew, Willow. They'll be able to do something."

"Do you think we don't have photos?" He was on his feet again, shouting, "I've got folders the length of my fucking arm about them. Give it up Xander, we can't do shit."

He was breathing hard, "Just give it a rest, alright. You saved the girl; job well done. Just leave it at that."

I could tell nothing I could possibly say would change his mind. "This isn't over Robin."

I needed to sleep, I felt like my skin was drooping off my skull.

"Oh, sorry, something completely unrelated." Robin said before I could reach the door.

I watched him rifle through his desk, "I need you to sign this." He pulled out a stack of papers, flipped through them till he reached some specific page.

I didn't really know what to say, "What the fuck Robin?"

He sighed, "Look, if you don't sign it now you'll have to sign it tomorrow. It's just a bunch of medical crap, Giles sent it this afternoon."

He kept the damn papers extended, refusing to break eye contact. The throbbing in my head refused to leave.

I grabbed a pen off his desk and scrawled my name on the dotted line.

I couldn't care less what the damn papers were about, I just wanted some sleep.

* * *

**Story Notes:**

First of all, everyone give a warm welcome to POYO!, who will be joining us for the duration of this journey. Poyo belongs to the comic Chew, created by John Layman and Rob Guillory.

I don't pretend to be a physician or license personal trainer. The majority of the fitness information contained this chapter comes from scientific studies freely published online. Don't take what I wrote as scripture, do your own research.

Hypertrophy refers to the growth of muscles due to resistance training. It separates broadly into two categories sarcomere hypertrophy, an increase in the size of the contractile portion of the muscles; and sarcoplasmic hypertrophy, an increase in the non-contractile portion of the muscle.

Basically sarcomere hypertrophy lead to greater muscle density and strength, while sarcoplasic hypertrophy lead to an increase purely in size. You might see someone with huge muscles, but if they feel soft there's a good chance he's a hell of a lot weaker than he looks.

Also if you live in Cleveland, I apologize. I don't really believe it's the 'mistake on the lake', but you have to agree your city's in rough shape.

**Author's Notes:**

We've also tackled two touchy subjects this chapter, hijab and human trafficking.

Hijab is a touchy subject, but it's one I feel is pretty important. The biggest issue is that wearing a hijab should be an entirely choice dependant thing. No one should be forced to dress in a certain way.

If I made any mistakes about Islam, please just shoot me a message of how I can correct it and I'll do my best. Most of what I know comes from hanging out with Muslim friends.

BtVS never had the most racially diverse cast. That's not a bad thing, but I grew up in a racially diverse city, so I always imagine characters as belonging to a wide variety of cultures.

Of course, I loved BtVS for the kick ass female characters and I really want to preserve that. Taking away what made the show so special to me would defeat the entire purpose of this fic.

When it comes to a lot of human trafficking stories, the female characters are often used as a tool to enrage male characters. They don't serve a purpose beyond that and it's always bothered me.

Taken, the film starring Liam Neeson, is a great example of that. The female characters are solely one dimensional constructions. In essence, the main characters daughter could be replaced with a stuffed animal he's really fond of and the plot would remain the same. You can't fault a teenage girl for panicking under a stressful situation, but a complete lack of any compelling female characters is pretty sad.

These girls get treated like checker pieces. Because they're not players they can't 'win', nor can they even quit the game.

I'm not going to try and be preachy.

I'm not a middle aged white dude and I want to handle this differently than what seems to be the acceptable norm. Xander will not be running around with his white man powers solving problems.

Seriously, ethnocentricism sucks and human traffickers can go die, but disempowering female characters to tell a story is also pretty scummy.

That said, I'm writing this through the eye and words of Xander. My own opinions and beliefs aren't always mirrored by him. He'll say and do things I don't necessarily agree with. He's not perfect. He's nowhere close.

Drop a review if you'd like, I always welcome criticism of any kind.


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